


Some Like It Hot

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (with some black humor and a whole lotta gusto), And this is a bona fide Victorian gothic murder mystery, Ciel is Sherlock, Dark, Dark Comedy, Gothic Atmosphere, Historical References, Mild Gore, Multi, Murder Mystery, Sebastian is Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-11-09 18:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Summer, 1890. The earl is suffering through a rare English heatwave when the queen sends him on a gruesome case involving the disappearance and deaths of several prominent young ladies attending the St Agnes School for Girls. For Sebastian, this is a unique lesson in human anatomy as the bodies pile up, each more disfigured than the last, and the city of Carlisle becomes the playground of a deranged new sort of serial killer. For the earl, it's a torturous excursion in cross-dressing as he is forced to don a corset and ballgown in order to infiltrate the school and discern St Agnes's mysterious benefactor.“The deaths of these women warranted, of course, the strictest form of solemn gravity as their flesh was split open and their insides cauterized while they were most likely still alive. Yet Sebastian found this to be the most curious sort of human dissection and fought the urge to bring out a notepad and pen while the earl observed these mutilated females—each around the same age as his own fiancée—with a look of indifference and mild annoyance, for the summer heat was relentless even here in Cumbria, so close to the Scottish border.”





	1. An Invitation to Murder

_July, 1890_

“You, my lord, have started a fire that you cannot control. The black flames will consume you, licking and burning your perfect flesh until nothing remains but charred bone and the memory of what has been.” Sebastian mused, cold and distant as the winter star hung aloft in the seeping night. He continued, with a quiet half-amused smile decorating his woeful mouth. “The most perfidious thing about hell is that possibility of redemption. You may gaze up and see the blind stars but they will not see you. The blossoming of cold, dead hope will resurrect in you and the bane of your forgone existence will quiver, ever so briefly, as you look up to the heavens and see what you may never possess.”

That, then, was the single most abhorrent thing Ciel Phantomhive had ever heard and he couldn’t believe it was his butler who’d given word to such a ridiculous assessment of heaven, hell, and the world that lay between. After all, the distance between these two intangible realms could not be measured through time and space and he, a demon, knew nothing of what laid beyond heaven’s great gates. So Ciel listened with a hint of disgust before turning back to the assignment at hand, underling various lines of concern his foreman had seen fit to highlight, and dismissing his butler with a single wave of his left hand.

It seemed this torrid summer was an ill-fated one, afflicting nearly everyone with some sort of philosophical musing that came from a desperate, seething urge to power against the hot July sun and unforgiving heat. The stifling conditions of the outside world was a fiction within the cool abode of Phantomhive Manor and some vague part of him recognized the design must have been made by his ancestors though his conscious mind could not bear to think of them at such a time. Instead, he was preoccupied with the various business reports that had come flooding across his well organized desk since his decision to create an English equivalent to the American amusement park that was Coney Island. Some part of him thought it disgraceful that such a crude attraction could yield so much profit but the other part of him, the ruthlessly opportunistic commodore of all things commercial, preened at the thought of amassing a secondary fortune based solely on the adrenaline rush of children and penny paid rides.

The effect of this practice on his heart was steady, and kept him well insulated from the crests of madness that were washing over each individual member of his staff. It seemed as if they were spending their paychecks on the works of sentimental philosophers whose books comprised of cheaply printed nonsense. As a result, the earl took their words with a grain of salt and sometimes (as with Sebastian) disregarded them entirely.

But, to quote his butler, the most perfidious thing about these ominous new ontologies was the complete resonance they shared with each other, as if Baldroy had assembled the framework, Finny had concocted the benign truth, and Mey-Rin had seen to it that the deliverance of this amiable wisdom be delivered to Tanaka, who would no doubt—through osmosis or perspicacity of an entirely different kind that came from age alone—synthesize this madness into one coherent whole and impart said words to the young earl, who as of now, had disregarded just about everything related to Jacobin enlightenment. Was it too difficult to believe that the persuasion of goodness and romanticism was utterly and completely wrong? That perhaps Sartre, Hobbes, and every other stone’s throw rationalist had studied the true mentality of man and concluded—whether fairly or not—that the relevance of sentiment was purely decorative, something to be performed when one was wealthy, beautiful, and bored?

Of course, such traits also applied to Earl Phantomhive but he was an unique case of acerbic vice and wicked schemes and as such, could be pardoned from this general consensus. For though he lived with five other servants and had powerful relations in the Midford family, the earl was, for all intents and purposes, alone with no one save the raven-haired butler who too often seemed more interested in his demise than his ascension. It would also be pointless to mention the earl’s deceased parents since, in his mind, they were merely a convenient, altruistic excuse for his satanic contract and while he did regret the loss of his idyllic youth, his hard-edged pragmatism forced him to see past this lost eden and into the void that stared back at him, with no answers on hand and no other assurance other than the promise of death.

Whether such a death was desired was irreverent in the grand scheme of things, and Ciel paid no heed to the question of his soul. But the summer days were long, hot, and seemed to stretch on infinitesimally, bleeding lackadaisical charm. July, it appeared, had the unique ability to give meaning to the sweltering heat and suffocating, too warm air, as if angels in their white robes were smothering humanity with white celestial fire in a desperate attempt to eradicate the sins of the earth. Even the earl was affected (hence why he rarely chose to venture outside) and, in his more muddled moments of sunbaked confusion, reflected—however briefly—on the treatise between himself and the crow demon.

Now, it was not as if the earl had any expectation to live beyond his fourteenth year but, it was to be admitted, he had a fiancée of beautiful, vivacious design and a reputation to uphold. Furthermore, the earl would be quick to claim, such a reputation was only valued for the gravity and malicious promise it placed on his nefarious schemes and plots; he did _not_ value the Phantomhive name out of softhearted affection or anything else quite so mundane though some brainless spectator might think otherwise. Nevertheless, the combination of the two put the earl in a difficult position—breaking such an engagement would not only be offensively rude to his intended bride-to-be, whose family was among England’s finest and whose standing was so gilded and pure that her majesty herself might chide Ciel for having done such injury to so good a character. And, given the heat of this Indian summer, the earl might be pressed to admit that he felt some pride in having obtained such a sought after bride. He was nothing if not proud and no demonic contract could sweep away his egoistic nature—a nature that often bordered on high-handed and, more often than not, piqued the coarser affections of those around him—so, he reasoned, the engagement would be kept until his death, when some other half-wit could explain this ordeal to all parties involved while Ciel safely resided six feet below ground, nestled in velvet, quietly gone from this silly world of propriety and decency.

 

The earl continued to work on his business correspondence until mid-afternoon, stopping only at two o’clock to begin his daily Latin studies, followed by an interlude of politics, law, history, and languages. He then supped on a very fine dinner of whatever Sebastian made before retreating to his private library with a tome of philosophy on hand. He was always in bed by either ten or ten-thirty with a mug of hot milk and honey, though the summer months had made his schedule erratic, perhaps owing to the heat of the night and the predilection towards baser human instincts. 

Ciel would often indulge in games of chess with Tanaka and cards with Lizzy who, while not particularly adept at the former, was an excellent cards player whose golden curls betrayed her unique ability to defeat Ciel or, at the very least, bring the game to a draw. These indulgences often came with undesired visitors—such as the Indian prince who thought English summers “mild” and “fair”; the German scientist who he thinly tolerated because her brilliance, academically, rivaled his own; and sometimes, the presence of the other servants was also involved though they usually came much later, when the windows were pried open and the mad heat of summer’s touch eroded Ciel’s better judgement.

But such instances were far and few in between and now, at four o’clock, the earl was tired.

He left his great mahogany desk in favor of his father’s red wingback chair situated by the unlit fireplace, a thin volume of poetry in hand. His body demanded some form of reprieve and while he would have preferred to engage in the works of Schopenhauer or Wolff, he chose instead the book of prose given to him by his fiancée some weeks ago. He told himself that such a reading, while unwelcome, was necessary to indulge her in conversation two days from now when she came to visit. Some part of him enjoyed her fluttery, exuberant manner of speech, for she could become so impassioned by literature that their repartees would last long into the night and the misery of his future could be temporarily forgotten.

So the earl sat by the blackened fireplace and read Arthur Rimbaud even though he did not have to and pressed himself to remember particular lines she might enjoy hearing; by the time the clock struck five-thirty, the earl closed the slim volume before his butler arrived with his evening tea. 

Sometime later, after the tea, cakes, and silverware had been left to the earl to do with as he wished, the butler reappeared with a letter from a Madame Yardley H. Yates who the earl was very familiar with—not in an intimate or distinguished way but in a crude, unwelcome fashion after she had attempted to blackmail the Queen’s Watchdog using some very impressive information she’d gathered from a roving Bulgarian count. Now the Madame served Ciel as an informant (for he had given her two options: either the hangman’s noose or a life of indentured servitude and the Madame, as vain as she was beautiful, possessed a singular desire to live, if only to continue her diet of champion and cigarettes) had an urgent need to see the earl because, as she wrote frantically, “A matter of very great importance has come up and I cannot transcribe such details on paper. I will need to see you, in person (though I am sure the journey will be a fever dream conjured by the sultriness of this summer), to discuss the more delicate details. The information I am able to give you is something I am sure you have heard—young girls of minor importance have begun to disappear from St Agnes School for Girls and their bodies have not yet been discovered. However, it has come to her majesty’s attention that the daughter of a very Prominent member of her court has also vanished and such an infraction in the paradise of her empire has caused great injury to her majesty’s heart and she desires a quick and just investigation—one Scotland Yard will upkeep so that you, Earl Phantomhive, may engage in the most duplicitous of schemes and find our Minister of Finance’s only child.”

And the earl, upon reading this hastily scribbled missive, demanded an immediate audience with Madame Yardley H. Yates all while instructing his butler to gather as much information as he could on the St Agnes School for Girls.

 

“St Agnes School for Girls,” the butler read, “was founded in the fall of 1799 by the Dowager Duchess of Cumbria who had no children of her own but who desired to patron the learning and education of others. Today, the institution is a quaint but prestigious academy of academic grace for young ladies of the upper middle class and minor nobility though, its reputation as a sterling school for innovative thought, has recently captured the interests of Lord Rathborne Hastings, current Minister of Finance, whose only child, Lady Eleanor Hastings, was enrolled under the pseudonym of Miss Jane Telling.” 

“And for how long has she been missing?”

“Officially, her absence has not yet been reported.”

The earl crossed one leg over the other, leaning back against the wingback chair with an expression of cool contemplation that made him look, the butler mused, a great deal like his deceased father. “The other girls,” Ciel decided, pursing a topic that would, no doubt, yield some clues, “who amongst them have been reported missing?”

“Miss Daisy James, whose father made a fortune through the printing press, was reported missing February of this year. Miss Stellamaris Coventry, whose father is, unsurprisingly, a merchant and the owner of the Brighton seafood industries, was reported missing October of 1889. Lady Helena Sutton, fourth daughter and seventh child to the Viscount Durand, was reported missing to Scotland Yard March 4, 1889. A corpse wearing the tattered remains of the dress Lady Sutton was last seen in was found May of this year though it is impossible to identify the body concretely.”

“And these are the only girls who’ve gone missing?”

The butler was amused. “They are the only ones who’ve been _reported,_ my lord.”

“You think there’re more, don’t you?” It was rather obvious that the demon did but the earl’s sharp tone of voice hinted at exasperation and an immediate explanation so Sebastian capitulated after a half-second of thought.

“Perhaps,” he said, giving neither an answer nor an omission, “but such a thing remains to be seen until Madame Yates arrives.”

And, just like that, the doorbell rang.

 

Madame Yardley H. Yates was a woman of phenomenal blonde haired beauty with fox-like eyes of liquid silver and skin of such pale translucence that one could easily mistake her for the vampire Carmilla. It was not so difficult an association to make, not when the madame wore inviting gowns of sensuous taste, with low-cut necklines and bodices that embraced the natural curves of her body and emphasized her narrow waist and hourglass figure—a figure that was often indecently exposed with diaphanous materials and obscene French fashions. Her pale gold hair—which was often set up in elaborate hairstyles and held together by diamond pins that could slice open the throat of any human—was carefully coiffed so that when she walked into the earl’s library, thoroughly warm but looking impossibly cool, she could command a compliment from the too-handsome butler and a blush from the boyish gardner.

“Good evening, Madame.” The earl greeted, rising to kiss her hand and noting that she looked rather fair despite her 32 years of age.

The Madame, of dubious and questionable origin, merely smiled in return. “The weather has been rather inhospitable, hasn’t it?” And, with the dramatics of one who had always adored the veneration of others, she discarded her chiffon wrap to reveal a gown of scandalous indecency, one so low-cut it would have fallen clean off her body had it not been for the corset binding the pale gold dress in place. It was, in all respects, a strapless scrap of cloth held together by sea pearls; it exposed her arms, neck, décolletage, and the tops of her breasts, and was enough to amuse the butler’s promiscuous tastes and earn a roll of the eye from the exasperated earl, who saw nothing appealing about this half-dressed harlot.

“Tea?” The earl inquired, implying her brief show of feminine exposure was now over and she was to resume her subservient role as informant to her majesty's Watchdog.

She demurred. “No thank you—but a glass of cold lemonade would be a pleasure.”

The butler, taking this as his cue (for he could easily overhear the conversation a hundred yards away but thought the Madame’s attempts to garner privacy a humorous little thing) departed with a bow to both master and guest.

With her distraction gone, Madame Yardley steeled herself and sat directly across from the porcelain earl. “Lord Hastings has lost his daughter, Parliament has come to a standstill, and the implications behind such distress will no doubt reach the ears of both the kaiser and the tsar within a matter of weeks.”

“So I’ve gathered.” The earl countered with a tone that was almost disinterested, though his sharp sapphire eyes were keen and alert—a puppet master waiting for his cue. “I’ve managed to stall their English interests for at least two more weeks,” the earl disclosed, though he would never tell this bloodless Madame how he had tipped off the kaiser with information suggesting that the tsar was pilfering knowledge from him whilst implementing the same trick on the Russian ruler. Oh, it was a childish scheme that delighted some infantile part of Ciel Phantomhive and, while effective, he was loathe to admit such puerile tricks to a woman as condescending as himself.

The Madame, having served under the earl for almost two years, took his word for gold and moved on. “Yes, well, the distressing part of this entire fiasco is that the body of Daisy James was found two months ago, though such news was never released—not even to the senior investigators at Scotland Yard.” Her voice lowered. “The only people who know of it include Dr. William Neill who performed the autopsy as well as Lords Grey and Phipps, who discovered Miss James’s body.” Her silvery eyes darkened, signifying the looming darkness that had forced the queen to press such a case into the earl’s hands. "Daisy James was almost completely drained of blood and her body was mutilated beyond the point of physical recognition. Had it not been for the overlap of her two back molars and the birthmark on the sole of her left foot, she might have never been identified.” She pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of her skirt and laid it before the earl. “The winter months actually preserved her body so that when Double Charles found it—“

“It was almost completely intact. Untouched by scavengers since she’d been buried in a manmade grave.” The earl mused, skimming over the Madame’s report.

She gave a nod. "Indeed. But more importantly, one of my employees—" the earl resisted substituting that word with _hired whore_ and remained quiet as she continued, "—provided another body who was similarly mutilated and drained of blood—the body of Lady Luella Rylan, the second daughter to the earl of Soames.”

Now _that_ caught the earl's attention as he immediately glanced up, a small furrow between his brows. It was an unspoken question that needed to be answered, for Lord Rylan was not some minor noble that was the wont of St Agnes. No, the earl of Soames was a man who’d studied law and whose presence in Parliament had seen the passage and prevention of many a bill. His marriage to Miss Henrietta Breedon had given him great fortune and three sons and now, the earl realized, the killing of Lord Rylan's daughter could very well be political, particularly if it was connected to the disappearance of Lady Hastings.

As the Madame leaned back against the finely stuffed armchair, the butler reappeared with a silver serving tray containing a pitcher of cold lemonade and a small plate of candied violets that the Madame took with eager delight. As she busied herself with the sweet flowers and drink, the earl and his butler shared a look—one that was both knowing and reluctant: they would need to visit St Agnes. 

 

The very next day, the earl was packed, the carriage was set, and within a blur of hours and travel, he arrived at the finest inn in the county of Cumbria, just half a mile from the city of Carlisle and the school of St Agnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know, I know - I've got a million and one unfinished stories but hot damn, this one's been rattling in my brain for so long I just thought I'd put it out there. I already know how this fic will end (so yay, coherence!) and I'm really hoping I'll be able to finish it by June's end ^_^" 
> 
> Thoughts?


	2. RSVP, Death

“Burying her body could very well be a sign of remorse.” The earl contemplated. He was seated behind a maplewood desk in his suite at the Scarborough Inn, languidly examining a plethora of files and papers pertaining to St Agnes and its eclectic staff of 19 employees, not including the headmistress.

The butler, who loomed ominously behind the earl, was not half so kind. “Perhaps. Though I lean more towards the macabre, young master.” He gestured to Luella Rylan’s haphazard file. “Burying the lady could have simply been an easy method of disposal.” He spoke with a sort of detached interest—like that of a surgeon exhuming a malformed organ—and could not help the bizarre sense of familiarity he felt towards this case.

There was something strangely hematic about this entire situation—a twisted impression that there was far more to these deaths then simple bloodlust—and he, the demon of a thousand years, felt that experience alone had provided him with some sort of insight into the grisly nature of humankind.

The follies of man were the demon's favorite intrigues and Sebastian could not help but hypothesize that the end of this mystery would have, no doubt, a blood-soaked and cumbrous end.

After all, the thorough mutilation of these young women must have had some meaning to the killer.

For now, both he and his master found the pictures more a lesson in anatomy than a gruesome provocation of flesh and mangled bone. There was even a cup of tea by his young lord’s side along with a plate of almond sugar cookies.

“Well isn’t this _droll._ ” The child-earl laughed, drawing Sebastian back to the amber-lit room of burnt ochre and wood. “The headmistress, called _Sister James_ of all things, is a 63 year old woman—spinster no doubt—who was elevated to her current post nearly a decade ago.”

The butler’s crimson eye swept down the list in the earl’s hand and, for a brief, shining moment, felt rather delighted by the genuine mystery of it all. “Agatha Johnson, Winifred Dalton, Sister Cecilia— _my, my_ do you suppose there’s any familial relation between you and she?”

His comment—impertinent and cruel—was ignored.

The earl spoke again. “These are all the teachers at St Agnes?”

“Indeed.” He bowed. “All women ranging from the age of 24—such as with Miss Agatha Johnson—to 74, the age of the now indomitable Mrs. Telford.”

“No male attendants whatsoever?”

“All educators here are female, my lord.”

The boy scowled. “How very like you to keep me flummoxed—“

“Have I?”

“You’re being deliberately vague.” The earl repudiated, sounding so annoyingly infantile that the butler wondered if he ought to put the child to bed right then and there.

The brat, oblivious, sorted through a few more pages before coming across a few files that were to his satisfaction. “Ah,” he breathed with a faint sigh of achievement, “the groundskeeper, utilities man, gardner, and handyman are all male. We have four relatively healthy, robust men who live and work near a school filled entirely with women. Now what does that say about the appetites of man?”

 _That we ought to keep an eye out for the damaged rosebuds of women?_ He suppressed a smirk and, with great difficulty, managed to swallow his answer, covering it instead with a shallow half-bow. “I shall examine their alibis and question them with polite impunity while you take tea with this…arresting headmistress tomorrow afternoon.”

The earl glared, looking a bit like a newborn rhinoceros. “For all your wit and pageantry,” he remarked, “you seem to favor entendres of the most banal and insipid sort.”

 

* * *

 

It was almost three in the morning when Sebastian returned to the inn to ensure, first and foremost, that his earl and master was still breathing (the child had a wretched habit of waking up for absolutely no reason) before departing for the grounds of St Agnes.

Dappled in silverly moonlight and cloaked under midnight blue, Sebastian merged into the shadows of the school’s forest grounds. Acres and acres of tall pine trees stood in his path but the demon, with his intangible body and curious crimson eyes, dispersed around them in a mist of charcoal as he ventured further and further into the woods. A grey stone well, a rotting wood bench, a neat and tidy cemetery. He passed them all, taking in the eerie silence with a grateful smile before he noticed the little garden of lettuce and tomato that signaled he had breeched St Agnes’s borders.

The school itself was a bastion of pale grey stone that emitted a faint silverly light under the milk pale stars. Tudor style windows and a medieval door of iron-barred wood blocked his entry, forcing the butler (who was quite loathe to utilize his supernatural abilities without an audience) to transform into charcoal mist once more and glide through the thin cracks into the headmistress’s office. From there, he made quick work of her files and became rather bored that nothing was under lock and key—until he came upon the little vault behind her walnut embossed bookcase.

The vault contained two items Sebastian regarded as moderately important and one ledger that he was tempted to borrow (at least until tomorrow) so his master could examine its contents himself.

Predictably enough, the red leather bound book contained St Agnes’s finances.

He chuckled.

Men, the demon knew, were capable of degeneracy that could make even the devil squirm when faced with the sin of greed. Plutonic desire was too often the downfall of paragons and saints alike, and he found it ironic that such a possibility should occur within a vicinity named after so pure a virgin. It would be a crimson cliche indeed if the headmistress were to be found wanting—blinded, perhaps, by monetary gluttony that she began to slaughter her students in order to collect their tuition fees and keep them for herself.

Such a deduction, however, was far too simple. Humans, Sebastian knew, were supposed to be the vessels of creativity. What fun could come from so boring a plan?

Thus, it was with a dull sort of interest that the butler pried open the ledger and observed the ink stained figures with an expression of passive distaste, flipping through the pages of simple accounting until, at last, he came upon a list of patrons familiar to his little lord.

_The duke of Egerton_

_Mr. H.K. Touken_

_Mrs. J William Adlock_

_The duke of Carlisle_

_Lady Jane of Silas Hall_

Sebastian paused.

_The duke of Carlisle_

While the name itself meant very little to him, he could remember a few months ago when the earl’s usual foul temper had escalated to such a degree that nearly every member of his household staff had been paralyzed with fear, not knowing when their master would erupt with fury.

The target of his ire was none other than the late Lord Everleigh, 5th duke of Carlisle, who had passed away just three days before his production lines were due to sign a new agreement with Funtom—one that was considerably more fair in the eyes of his rapacious master—but, upon his death, Lord Everleigh’s son, Commodore Fielding, had refused outright to honor the contract and fled to the sanctity of Carlisle not three months later.

His master had refused overtures from Everleigh’s widow, whose clumsy attempts at reconciliation were touching but unwelcome in such circumstances.

Yet, in a rare moment of genial comprehension, the earl had brushed off her strangely worded letters as part of her “foreign extraction”, as the dowager duchess was by no means a lady of distinction. She was, in fact, an obscure daughter of some eastern monarchy who the earl thought as both pitiful and obtuse. Still, he had retained a modicum of remission for Everleigh’s widow simply because he shared the late duke’s opinion: the duchess was, for all intents and purposes, a face of pure and unforgivable loveliness.

Nevertheless, the butler decided, setting the memory aside to focus at the task at hand, he ought to wait until his master's meeting with the headmistress before executing anything rash.

After all, young schoolgirls, untouched and unseen, were the most scintillating delicacies the demon could hope to sample.  

 

* * *

 

In Ciel’s opinion, the headmistress—Sister James—was a woman of upstanding piety and staunch, unwavering belief in the Christian faith. She herself had attended a boarding school in the bare and Spartan lodgings of a small borough in York and through the cold winters, where she washed her hands and face in the still frozen lake water of the Blue Crest Stream, Bertha Tattersall’s character had hardened into one of armored steel. It was this steel that enabled the plain faced, prim mannered Bertha Tattersall to endure the relentless teasing of her schoolmates who often picked fun at her stringy hair, mended frocks, and sturdy, masculine figure. But to them, she paid no heed and instead sought to journey even father north, past Whitby and Sunderland, to the grey canopied town of Carlisle—a borough of heavy rain and dour faces with weather that cut through the skin and seeped to the marrow of one's bones.

She was, in effect, a clever old bird who addressed noblemen with the sort of sharp astuteness that made lesser men fall to stuttering half-wits as they attempted to divine respect from their birth status—a status that Sister James, quite frankly, did not give two shits about. Her brutal honesty, combined with her ability to face life with the same sort of resolve that a hunter fixed on its prey, earned her the quiet respect of Earl Phantomhive, as neither of them cared much for the pretensions of the human plane (though she did think the sapphire earl’s effeminate fondness for silks and buckles a touch ridiculous) and both enjoyed a fine cup of tea more than all the pomp and circumstance of the western world. 

“I take it you’re here on behalf of her majesty to investigate the deaths of Daisy James, Stellamaris Coventry, and Lady Helena.” The headmistress began, blunt and straightforward as the January snow.

“I’m afraid so.” Lord Phantomhive, the Right Honorable Earl of Phantomhive, replied. He took a sip of the jasmine tea, made a mental note to inquire where this particular brand came from, and promptly added two sugar cubes and a dash of honey. “The disappearance," he added, "of Lady Eleanor Hastings is also of some distress.”

“I see.”

She noted and fell into a brief silence by which time the earl took note of her sparse office. A rectangular box devoid of tokens, pictures, or sentiment: a valuable reflection, then, of the draconian virtues of this stern-faced woman. 

“If I may, Lord Phantomhive?”

The earl glanced up, took another sip of tea, and motioned for her to continue.

She did. “The truth of the matter is you will need to conduct a teacher by teacher and student by student interview if you wish to learn what happened to Miss Hastings. Scotland Yard has been here three times already and all they’ve learned absolutely nothing. One man with an idiotic mustache actually had the gall to say Miss Hastings left St Agnes on her own violation and we ought to settle down like 'proper women ought'.” She set down her teacup and leaned forward. “My professional opinion of all this? Utter nonsense. The only family Eleanor Hastings has who lives even remotely close to Carlisle is a distant spinster aunt who resides in Embleton, nearly 95 miles from here.” 

“So you think our police force inept?”

“More than that I think they’re blind, deaf, and dumb.” She cleared her throat, clearly unrepentant but also unwilling to say any more.

Ciel hid a smile. The old bird was—despite her age and Protestant beliefs—a character for the ages. 

“In any case,” he said and produced Eleanor Hastings’ file from his black leather briefcase, “she is the daughter to our Minister of Finance and her godmother is the Princess Louise. With the Hastings so closely tied to the royal family and these disappearances occurring at such close intervals, we need to discover the culprit—and quickly. Her majesty has expressed a rather blatant desire to close down St Agnes if these incidences continue and I, Sister James, would loath to see such a fine establishment shut down.”

She arched a brow. “You’re all heart, aren’t you Lord Phantomhive?”

“I pride myself on that, yes.”

And, having spoken these fateful words, earl and headmistress gave each other a sharp nod—a nod that connoted both mutual respect and reluctant partnership for it could not be helped. The earl disliked Sister James on principle and Sister James, having been a nun for quite some time, sensed something rather amiss about the child-earl with his wicked eyepatch and serpentine tongue. 

She pursed her weathered lips and debated on verbalizing an idea that had been floating through her head since the earl spoke Eleanor Hastings’ name.

“You’ll not find anything from these girls through direct inquiry.” She sighed, giving up her now cold tea and taking a biscuit instead.

“Oh?” He sounded skeptical and the headmistress, never one for aristocratic pretension, fixed him with the full force of her beady, coal black gaze.

“Have you ever been surrounded by two dozen young ladies who all believe they’re the center of the world and who wouldn’t hesitate to stab their closest companion in the back if it meant obtaining the affections of a particularly wealthy man?” 

The boy looked unimpressed. “What they do in their spare time is hardly my concern, headmistress. This is a murder investigation, not a therapy session.” He said haughtily and for a moment, a brief shining moment, Headmistress Tattersall pitied him.

It was obvious he'd never interacted with a female presence before.

“So be it." She shrugged. "Listen to their twittering lies and see what you get out of this. Of course, if you're quick about it, we might make it in time to discover Miss Hastings' bones before they're ravaged by the wild animals who live nearby. Such a shame isn't it, earl? That fussy old minister will never live to see his brat of a daughter walk down the aisle but at least you'll have conducted this investigation  _your_ way. A childish sentiment but I suppose you can't help your age." She sighed tragically and watched with growing amusement as the earl's face turned steadily from pink, to red, to a now furious shade of blue. 

Inwardly, Ciel was screaming. 

 _Oh, she thinks she's **funny** does she? Doddering old woman, _he seethed,  _how dare she not even offer to accommodate me? To let me interview her students or review that blasted sealed ledger—_

“However," the headmistress interrupted rather suddenly, abruptly cutting off Ciel's internal tantrum, " _I_ may have a solution to this.” 

He wondered if she'd survive a fall out the window. 

She grinned.

“You’ll have to go undercover, Earl Phantomhive.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Lady Celia Burnett, niece of the late Baroness Burnett, was temporarily enrolled in the St Agnes School for Girls by consent of her guardian—Sir Adrian Evangelista of Loyola.

 

* * *

 

“This is preposterous—“

“A moment more, young master. I’ve nearly finished with your stockings—“

“Take your filthy demon hands off of me!”

“My, my—protecting your virtue already? You truly are a method actor, my lord.”

The little brat stumbled off the wooden stool. He was unsteady in the heavy silk skirt that flared out from his hips and moved rather awkwardly in the thigh high lace stockings that outfitted his slim legs. It was a decidedly uncomfortable get up and the padded corset ("forgive me young master, but we must endeavor to add a few curves, hm?") was already making it difficult for him to breathe. Sipping in air with rouged lips, Ciel fought against the bile that was steadily rising in his throat and managed, with considerable effort, to steady himself against the fourposter bed of the Scarborough Inn. 

Everything he was wearing—from the silk undergarments to the ridiculous petticoats to the stiff white lace gloves—made it impossible for him to move. His skin chaffed and the lace stockings itched against his milk-white skin. Every breath took considerable effort to achieve and _the bastard was laughing at him,_ no doubt about it.

“Remember your breathing etiquette, young master—in through the nose and out—“

"Stop  _tugging_ so hard!" He gasped, fingers clawing the wooden fourposter as Sebastian tightened the last of his stays. “I’ll have you crucified for this.”

“ _That_ would be an amusing sight indeed.” 

“Christ’s sake,” Ciel groaned, one hand coming to wrap around his pitifully small waist, “how does Lizzy do it? Is she immune to pain? Or was she simply born beautiful?” His muttered unintentionally, barely registering the demon’s choked laughter as images of Lizzy—golden, fierce Lizzy—floated to the forefront of his mind.

Two swords, bare legs, lace skirts fluttering as she twirled and pirouetted from one Bizarre Doll to the next. Her golden curls flying behind her like a comet’s flame while crystalline tears fell from her rosy cheeks…

And later, he'd blame the lack of oxygen going to his brain when he wondered how proficient she might be against living, breathing things—criminals, crooks, thieves.

But as quickly as that thought appeared, it vanished and Ciel felt an urgent need to throw something. The corset had not only robbed him of breath but had also stolen what little sanity he had left—good god, his eyes skimmed to where Sebastian stood (doing his utmost to keep from laughing) and cringed.

“Did you say something, my lord?" 

“Nothing.” Ciel ground out, awkwardly waddling towards a flowered hat that teetered dangerously close to the roaring fireplace. “Let’s get this over with.”

The demon’s lips quirked up. “As you wish… _my lady._ ” 

 

* * *

 

“And this is Lady Lavinia. She will be your mentor until you have adapted to the customs and conventions of St Agnes.” Miss Pryce smiled, gesturing to a tall, slim-figured young lady who looked to be seventeen or so.

Ciel—or pardon, _Celia_ —gave a clumsy curtsey that was overlooked, since the young lady before him appeared to be a paragon of kindness. Her eyes, a warm mossy green, reminded him of Elizabeth’s—they shone with an innate sweetness of being that left him unsure of how to act. It was, after all, so rare to meet a creature whose purity was not tainted by the cruelty of this world.

“Miss Pryce.” The girl acknowledged respectfully. Her pale brown hair was tied in a neat bun.

“This is Lady Celia Burnett. She will be your charge until the headmistress deems it otherwise.” Miss Pryce, never one for exaggerated conversation, gave a sharp, swift nod and promptly exited the room.

Alone, Ciel and the girl identified as Lady Lavinia stood staring at each other before she gestured for him to sit down. “I’m very sorry for Miss Pryce’s abruptness.” She apologized. “It’s just that the Selection is coming up soon and it’s always a very stressful time here at St Agnes.” From a little wooden desk Lady Lavinia produced a medium sized blue tin that smelled of almonds and the familiar sweetness of freshly baked biscuits. “Care for one?” The girl smiled, offering him the tin which contained, as Ciel suspected, a wide array of biscuits and small cakes. The familiarity comforted him and he managed a small smile back. 

“Thank you.” He kept his voice soft, the way Lizzy did when they spoke in public, before delving into the inquiry that had been puzzling him since Miss Pryce left. “But—do forgive my ignorance—what is the Selection?”

“Oh it’s a yearly tradition.” She explained, handing him a napkin. “Our benefactor from Carlisle takes on five students from St Agnes—usually the top five of any class. They stay at Carlisle Castle for the remainder of the semester studying the nuances of art, music, dancing, and polite conversation.”

Ciel frowned. “They learn all this from the duke of Carlisle?”

“Oh no—“ Lavinia laughed (though it was a very polite, dignified laugh—the sort of laugh that was heard from the lips of queens and diplomats), “it’s nothing so outlandish. The duke was our benefactor on paper but the true driving force behind the Selection is his wife, the dowager duchess. She began the Selection process three years ago and while I do not wish to be uncouth or brash, I suspect the reason she did it was because she misses her own children.”

“You mean her son?”

“Which one?”

“She…has more than one son?” _That can’t be—Sebastian would have seen his name on the social register._

There had been no other Holderidge from Carlisle to speak of. 

Ciel passed the tin back to her and impatiently waited for her to speak when a sudden expression of alarm crossed her face. 

"Oh do forgive me!" She fretted, quickly placing down the tin and glancing around frantically. "I've forgotten to offer you any tea! Truly, I'm not always so haphazard, well, sometimes I am but on today of all days, really—" 

“That’s _quite_ alright,” he gritted through his teeth, “I don’t particularly care for tea.”

 _Just get on with your goddamn story._ The corset stays were bruising his ribs and the heavy weight of the gown made it difficult for Ciel to sit in any one position for too long. Clenching his fist, he took another bite of the chocolate biscuit, savoring its cocoa sweetness that soothed—however slightly—his overwrought state. Truly, he had no idea how Madam Red and Lizzy wore these blasted contraptions every day, 365 days a year.

“I’m sorry for that,” Lavinia interrupted, breaking Ciel form his revere as a genuine look of remorse crossed her fair face. “You see, the duke’s eldest son—Lord Arthur—gave up his birthright to become a cartographer in the Ottoman Empire. His decision infuriated his father, the late Lord Everleigh, to the point that he was never truly the same man again. He became very ill and left most of the estate to his daughter, Lady Katherine, until she married and the rights of the estate transferred to his wife, Lady Esther.”

“So the dowager duchess has full control over the Selection process?" 

Lavinia nodded. “Indeed so. She is also the primary instructor for the young ladies she takes on. Many of them have married into noble families and those who have not have chosen to take the cloth.”

_Take the cloth—? At so young an age?_

“They became nuns?” Ciel was puzzled. “Why?”

“The Lady Esther is a very religious woman—very pious and good. I suspect she instilled in them a love of god that overwhelmed their desire to marry.” The words (while preposterous) were sincere on Lady Lavinia’s part so Ciel said nothing in response.

His mind, however, continued to work. Wealthy daughters from prominent families suddenly getting married without _any_ word from the London social registrar? Not _all_ of them could have wed modest, humble noblemen’s sons who desired no publicity and wanted only the comfort of familial life, could they? Even the very thought was farfetched, improbable, and, Ciel realized with growing apprehension, most of these girls had no siblings. No relatives to speak of at all. 

What father—particularly what  _aristocratic_ father—would willingly relinquish their best bartering tool at such a ripe, tender age?

He observed the young lady before him. “Pardon me, Lady Lavinia? Do you have any siblings?”

“Hm? Oh no,” she gave him a hesitant smile, “I…had an older brother but…he died a year ago.” She bit her lip. “Scarlet fever.”

Ciel felt a pang of remorse for the girl but quickly pushed it aside. If his suspicious were correct…

“So you have no other brothers? No sisters, cousins—?”

“My father, Lord Cassius, is an only child and my mother was American. All her family reside in Philadelphia.”

_A father who’s an only child. A dead brother. A mother whose family is halfway across the world—_

Ciel’s eyes widened because even if the very thought was impossible, it was not improbable.

A killer living in the dowager duchess’s home—her second son, most likely, who used his mother’s selection process to sate his own bloodlust. Clever enough to choose girls who had no family, or, at the very least, relatives who were far away—either too poor to do anything or too indifferent to remember their long forgotten niece or cousin.

Ciel had seen it happen before and with a woman as powerful and well respected as the dowager duchess of Carlisle covering for you…

“Lady Lavinia, what does the Selection process entail? What must you do in order to be selected?” 

“Well,” she tapped her chin thoughtfully, “the usual standards, I suppose. A young lady of good breeding, youthfulness, graciousness, and aptitude. Your school record will be given and recommendations by our teachers and headmistress will also be sent.”

“Is that all?” Ciel pressed. “No physical inspection or anything like that?”

_Surely a man as perverse as this—someone who kills and most likely rapes these girls—would have a physical preference. He’ll want his victims to look the part, he’ll want to_ **_see_ ** _._

“I think one time the dowager duchess came to St Agnes but that was a very sorrowful occasion. One of the young ladies who had been chosen for the Selection died of pneumonia and the duchess wanted to offer her personal condolences.”

“Was the body ever recovered?”

“No, I don’t believe so. The duchess was afraid of the sickness spreading to the girl’s family so she burned the body.”

Before he could stop himself, the question tumbled from Ciel’s lips: “Do you know who the girl was?” It was a blunt, crude inquiry—something no _respectable young lady_ would have asked but Ciel was desperate. He couldn’t maintain this farce much longer—not when he could feel his internal organs being slowly crushed by this corset of death. “Please,” he added quickly, when he saw Lavinia hesitate, “I—I only wish to…prepare myself.”

He was blurting out random thoughts, half-pieced together sentences, but whatever he said must have done the trick. Lavinia’s moss green eyes brightened and she scooted her chair closer so that her and Ciel’s shoulders bumped together.

Leaning down, Lavinia locked eyes with Ciel. “You must never repeat what I am about to tell you, do you understand?” She asked sternly, sounding very much like his Aunt Frances.

Ciel nodded. “Yes, of course—gentleman’s agreement.”

Lavinia stared.

Ciel bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood.

_Gentleman’s agreement? What was he, bloody fucking_ **_insane_ ** _? This was an undercover operation and he’d just blown his goddamn cover—_

“Gentleman’s agreement.” Lavinia suddenly said, startling Ciel from his self-flagellation. Instead of suspicion and hostility, Lavinia wore a bemused smile and touched Ciel’s arm. “Shall we shake on it?”

He sighed in relief. “Indeed.”

 

* * *

 

It was near midnight when Ciel finally managed to speak with his thrice damned butler. They were on the tallest spire of St Agnes’s hall with an ebony night overhead. No stars glittered and the thin crescent moon barely provided enough light for Ciel to make out Sebastian’s shadow.

“My lord,” the butler bowed but Ciel had little patience for pleasantries.

He tugged his cloak tighter. “We need to get into the Duchess of Carlisle’s castle. There is a very good chance that her youngest son, Lord Everett, is the one behind these disappearances.”

The demon arched an elegant brow. “Are we so sure?”

Ciel scoffed. “He’s the only one with the predisposition to do so. Commodore Fielding, his illustrious older brother, departed Carlisle weeks ago, and even after he’d left the killings continued. The dukedom of Carlisle is isolated, cut off from most of London society and her majesty has never had need of the Holderidge family. Lord Everett would have been able to kill with impunity and, I have to admit, the guise of tutoring young girls to further their station in society is a clever ruse. These girls are the daughters of low rank aristocrats—their fathers would have never been able to resist the temptation of one day seeing their child presented at Queen Victoria’s court. His position alone would have intimidated anyone from asking questions.” A cool night breeze blew by, chilling Ciel to the bone. “F-furthermore, Lord Everett’s name never appeared on the social register—why give anyone cause to know your name and identity when your proclivities are murder and mayhem?” He grit his teeth to keep his teeth from chattering but Sebastian, with his supernatural vision (damn him), saw.

“And you believe the dowager duchess would have no knowledge of this? That her name is being used to facilitate the slaughter of innocents?” He placed his overcoat over Ciel’s frail shoulders and earned a glare so cold it could frozen Tartarus.

“Yes, well, that would only be taken into account if we knew Everett had a sense of moral decency.” He sniffed, adjusting the bulky heaviness of the coat around his bird-thin body. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the dowager duchess lived as a perpetual prisoner within her own home.”

A strange glint appeared in the demon’s eye. “And what of the daughter? Are we write off Lady Katherine so easily?”

Ciel waved away his inquiry. “A frivolous, shallow girl for all intents and purposes. A bit of a flirt—certainly spoiled—and in any case, Lizzy knows her.”

“My, my—you put quite a bit of faith in your fiancée’s word.”

“And so does Aunt Frances.” Ciel smirked. 

And the demon, with no other argument to give, fell into petulant silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *ducks tomato* I - *ducks another tomato* I AM - *gets splayed by an entire barrage of tomatoes* I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS SUPER DELAYED CHAPTER but to compensate I've made it extra long and decided to compress this fic into 5 chapters (or less!) so it won't take forever to finish! ^^ 
> 
> On another note: thank you guys SO MUCH for your patience and to everyone who bookmarked - this chapter's for you! 
> 
> Please, please, please leave a review and tell me what you think!


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